


1996

by rokklagio



Category: Oasis (Band)
Genre: Gen, Incest, M/M, WARNING!!! misuse of cast no shadow lyrics, except i don't really explain much, here's 2k words so i can explain why he loves him but acts like a dick, me at 2am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 04:59:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15767094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rokklagio/pseuds/rokklagio
Summary: bound with all the weight of all the words he tried to say





	1996

**Author's Note:**

> there's one (1) thing I love and it's writing Noel and dissect his lies. And also making up stuff around things that happened in that particular year.

 

 

You could never stand her.

You couldn’t stand her even when it wasn’t your brother on her radar, but yourself. Thing is, you knew it. You understood what she was doing, and you understand it now.

You _get_ it.

Patsy is swaying her way across the room, all eyes on her and she is visibly aware of it. Sometimes you think her impossibly tiny waist ought not to support a head so full of hair, so full of herself. It’s ridiculous how much she reminds you of your brother: they seem to share the same idle bright eyes, the same pair of refined pink lips that rest in that pout that has always driven you mad.

Even though she and Liam look like a pair of striking good-looking twins, they can’t be any farther apart with their characters, even if they think they get along.

Even if you call them both twats. Even if you make Liam think they belong to each other (you never fail to tell him all of this with as much contempt as you can muster), but it’s incredible how you can see through her actions: going from one marriage to the other since she was young, trying to stay afloat.

You used to do the same, after all.

Hand jobs in public toilets took less than weddings and shit, though. Thank fuck.

Patsy’s all smiles and laughs and pleasantries for her guests, you see her charm everyone around her and you think she is such a perfect host: Britain’s sweetheart.

You never liked the birds that loitered around Liam. You don’t like them when they think your brother is hot shit, out there playing the fucking boss while he does nothing but sits on his arse all day while you do the rest. You _hate_ them when they think they can pull the Yoko Ono card on your brother and get away with it. As if you’d let them. As if you’d let _him_.

Her smile falters a little bit when she meets your eyes, so you flash an even bigger grin. She hates your guts and you know that because she doesn’t acknowledge your presence and keeps on walking.

Sometimes you wish she was a little Cerisse. Way less subtle, equipped with a loud voice and with boa feathers hording around Liam’s coked up face so that you can easily pull her aside and mark her as a bad influence on your brother. He likes to think he loves these girls, but he doesn’t: as soon as they are out of the picture, he wiggles his tail back to you, and you can hear your words back through his voice: “she was trying to boss me around. Talking about moving together. Nah, can’t be arsed with that, me”.  

Maybe you get punched once or twice in the process, but he always comes back, in the end.

Meg’s come with you; she made sure you came to congratulate your brother and your sister-in-law on their new house. You think Meg wants to play the peacemaker, but she actually wants to check out the new gaff so she can pull off something better next time Noel has a party. Though, unlike you, she doesn’t hate Patsy. Not with the same intensity that you do, anyway.

“It’s nice, isn’t it.”

What a funny thing to say. You and Meg did drugs before coming over, and now she is trying to act all smart and sober.

“Thank fuck!” you shout, baffled and a little amused. “the fucker pulled out on us to buy this place. It’d better not be a shithole.”

That was ages ago, before you and Liam had reunited and fallen out another hundred times, but now you find it funny. Meg gives you a weird look.

“I’m starving. I might go and have a look at the buffet table. Do you want anything?”

You’re not hungry. You don’t think you have ever been hungry your whole life. You’re most definitely not hungry now.

“What do they have?”

“I think quiches.”

“Then I’m better off with some KFC later.”

She is leaving you behind unattended, with that beast out hunting for blood, but you find that you don’t really care. It might be the drugs coming down, it might be that you’re bored: your eyes wander around the room but you can’t see him.

“Liam will come later, I don’t know why you bothered to come this early.”

As soon as Meg is out of the picture, _she_ quickly jumps in for blood. Can’t afford to lose allies, can she? Patsy is wearing a weirdly boyish black suit and she’s ready to strike.

 You only cross your arms.

“Who said I’ve come here to see him?” You realise faking indifference with Patsy will take you nowhere. It doesn’t matter how much she reminds you of him, she is _not_ Liam.

“Yeah, you’ve come here only because Meg probably dragged you,” she replies instantly, cutting you off. And she is right, heaven knows she is right.

“Well, I didn’t need to come here to know that my brother is probably in some shithole either getting high or knocking someone up.”

Something flashes in her eyes that makes her cross her arms and look away, so you know you’ve struck a chord. It’s too early to rejoice though, because she has just stepped forward and now she is staring at you.

“Anywhere is good, as long as he is far away from you.”

You chuckle. “What is that supposed to mean, Patricia?”

She has lowered her voice.

“You know what I mean.”

You think about ignoring it. It would be easy to just downplay her words and treat her like the fucking lunatic she is, but your brain is buzzing in your head. You wish you had been lucid for this.

“You know he doesn’t give a shit about you, right? You realise that I can say anything and he will drop you dead at any given moment, yeah?”

She shuts her eyes and cuts you off again. “It’s not about me. I know what he is like. I just don’t want him around _you_. You’re fucking damaging, that’s what you are.”

You fucking hate her.

But you get it.

 

Months later you’re in bed with a blissfully drunk Liam. He has longer hair these days, so long you can catch it in your fist when you’re fucking him; so long it curls around your face when he is messily kissing your mouth as he rides you into oblivion. You told him he ought to cut it at some point because he looks like a right tool and you might care a little about your band’s image ( _Liam_ ’s image) but the truth is that he is absolutely stunning even when he wants to look like a watered-down version of John Lennon, but you’re always too sober to say it. So you don’t say it.

He’s smiling after he has just gone down on you and he’s probably fishing for some praise. You can’t help but stroke his hair as you let jealousy consume you because, you guess, you wish you were him. Many people suggested that already.

You know deep down it’s a sickening pleasure, a perverted desire to have him only for yourself. There’s an indescribable feeling that swells in your heart every time you look at him and realise he is as divine as he is a complete, fucking mess. You don’t know if it’s love but it makes you choke on your words, so when he says _I love you, Noel_ you can’t say anything back.

 

*

 

You hate your father, but somehow Liam hates him more.

You’re all so caught up with touring and fighting you both forget for a moment that you’re in Dublin and there’s no safe distance from your childhood nightmares. You’re down in the hotel lobby, enjoying the city, enjoying its people when he shows up, with all the self-assurance of someone who thinks they are invited, but they’re not.

You’ve been in a bit of a row with Liam so you’re both safely avoiding each other. You nurse on your beer as you watch your younger brother shout nonsense across the room, all eyes on him.

You don’t really see when Thomas Gallagher makes his entrance in the lobby, happily strolling towards Liam. Somebody tells you he is with a journalist and as you stand up, Liam has already turned around and, you can see it in that mad look of his, he is ready to clock him. You know that, and your father knows that as well, that’s why he is here.

You quickly walk up to Liam and you grab his hand.

“Let’s go.”

Liam tries to jerk his hand free, but you tighten your grip.

“I’m gonna fucking clock him, the bastard.”

“Liam,” you say, ignoring your father as you try to establish eye contact with your brother. “Come with me.”

“No, I won’t.”

You don’t accept no for an answer, especially when it comes to Liam. Especially if it comes to your father.

“Liam!” you snap. “You come with me right now.”

His bewildered eyes leave the two figures behind your shoulders and move onto you instead. _Listen to me for once_ , you think with intensity, perhaps hoping he could hear the resoluteness in your mind. _Don’t let them make a joke out of you_. He stands up and he lets you take him by his arm, as you drag the both of you to the other side of the room, where you can be left in peace.

“That fucking bastard! I’m gonna break his fucking legs.”

“No, you won’t. That’s what they want. That’s why he’s come with a fucking journalist!”

“I can’t stand him being here,” he points towards the room. “I can’t fucking stand seeing him in the same room as you. After what he did.”

He says this as he still looks back at your father, so he doesn’t notice the way you visibly gulp at his simple confession, but you can’t afford yourself to let it show. So you clear your voice and close the curtains between the two of you, and the rest of the world.

You sigh. “There’s nowt he can do now, anyway.”

He looks at you with a curious gaze. You can see he is still furious, but you can see he is keeping his cool, which is uncharacteristic of Liam. It’s ironic how it takes your father to keep his sons in line.

An eternity seems to pass by. You don’t want to talk about it, so you finish your beer and go to your room. Liam doesn’t, but two hours later he is knocking at your door and you let him in. You’re in an old, ratty t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, with hair ruffled on top of your head and an unfinished nightmare at the back of your mind. He has the same clothes that stink of booze, but when he hugs your neck and presses up against your body you find that you don’t mind it too much. You let him kiss you raw until you’re both laying on the bed. You’re too tired, so you have no idea when you have fallen asleep.

When you wake up, Liam is not in your bed.

 

When you’re on your way to the airport, a few days later, you hear Liam’s alleged voice telling your father to never show his face again or he’ll break his legs. Your first instinct is to smile because it’s Liam telling someone off and it’s always funny. Only it’s not.

It’s your younger brother who is threatening to kill your father because he thinks it’s his duty; because you two now have something stronger than brotherhood, if that’s even possible. Because you made it this way; because Liam gave you no alternative.

The worst thing is that it’s out there, for everybody to hear.

 

*

 

“Look what I got us.”

You and Liam are lazily sprawled on your king-size bed; the soft grey duvet that Meg picked is tickling the sole of your foot and your head is laying on top of Liam’s stomach as you both contemplate your baroque ceilings. You rarely do this and never in your house: you don’t like sharing certain pieces of your life with him, but you’ve spent a few months apart and you’re sure the small part in your soul that you save for Liam is empty and needs recharging, like some battery.

“What’s that,” he asks in his annoying, nasal voice. You smile, wondering how this spoiled brat had come to have the perfect throat to scream your songs, even the ones you had in you for ten, fifteen years, before you had the courage to sing them to someone else.

You take out the rings from the tiny satchel and, without saying anything, you grab Liam’s left hand and slip the ring on his finger. You both admire it as it gets stuck in the middle.

“Fuck. I forgot you had fattier fingers than me,” you say in a fit of giggles. It’s the weed – now your preferred drug of choice since coke’s been giving you a fair share of gruesome nightmares and panic attacks. You save it only for the gigs.

“Fuck off,” he replies, but it comes off more endearing than it should.

His eyes are still fixed on the big, red stone mounted on its golden bed. He examines the ring in silence, making it dance and twist and turn between his thumbs and his index fingers. Funnily enough, you feel examined just like the ring.

You know there’s broken trust in there, somewhere. It’s been this way since Maine Road, when you thought that going back to Manchester when you were at the top of the world would have been enough. But it wasn’t enough for Liam, and it wasn’t enough for you.

Liam wanted more attention than ever (never mind he had a whole country at his feet), and you just wanted to be left alone.

_You can take my soul, don’t take my pride._

_When you take my soul, don’t take my pride._

You had heard it a million times already, but this time he is looking at you as he sings it. If Liam is the hangman, why does he look like he is the one on the gallows?

 You swallow, uneasy. “Well, what d’you reckon? You like it?”

Liam opens his mouth, then he closes it. He takes his time before he asks: “Do I put it on my finger?”

You chuckle.

“Of course you do cunt, it’s a ring.”

“Fuck off,” his face darkens a bit, “you know what I mean.”

Of course you know what he means, but it’s much easier to play dumb with him.

You thought so much and for so long whether you should have got Liam something material for the two of you, a tangible token of your feelings, other than promises made when you were either drunk or high, but you have always fought against it. Then, one day, you had walked past a jeweller, spotted the pair of rings behind the window and thought “fuck it”. You liked them. You would have worn one of them anyway and then gave the other one to Liam if you felt like it. If you thought he deserved it.

“You can wear it,” you know your smile is warm and Liam feels comforted by it, so you add, “if you can.”

Liam finally slips it on his pinkie, and it’s a right fit.

“I love it,” he admits in a small voice.

You hope it’s enough, god knows how bad you want to tell him you love him, but there’s something that sickens you in admitting it like that. So you write it in your songs. You give him a ring that matches your own so he knows he is yours, and you are his.

You only hope that he gets it, and doesn’t ask you for anything more.

 

(One month later and you kiss him in front of 80,000 people. Whether you gave Liam enough or raised the bar too high you don't know: part of you hopes Patsy is watching, and another small, infinitesimal particle of your brain hopes Liam will never get enough of you, so you can keep on denying him what he wants and give him what you want. Be it lies, rings or kisses.)


End file.
